


May Your Days Be Moriarty and Bright

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M, Jim makes helicopter parents look like permissive hippies, no really he is the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: A lazy day in, watching Christmas movies and decorating the tree, seems just the ticket. But Jim - as always - has an agenda in mind...





	May Your Days Be Moriarty and Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shakespeareandsprinkles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespeareandsprinkles/gifts).



> shakespeareandsprinkles asked: I'd love to read Jim's reaction to Christmas movies. If that doesn't get any plot bunnies going in the mind, snow ball fights or Christmas Tree decorating would be great, and I think would be hysterical and adorable (and potentially morbid) on both counts, lol. Thank you so much!
> 
> \--
> 
> Didn't quite get the snowball fights in, but the movie they're watching has a song about snow in it, so that almost counts. Enjoy!

"BANNED."

Molly rubbed her temple, sought out her patience, and wondered yet again why she'd ever agreed to have a baby with this maniac.

"What's wrong with this one?" she said once she could speak without shrieking.

"It is _horrifying_ , Molly-my-bell," Jim sniffed. "We are not exposing Junior to that." He flapped his hand in the general direction of the television.

'Junior' – who was definitely not going to be called Junior, no matter how much Jim lobbied – slammed a particularly vicious kick right into her kidney, adding his own protests to this egregious despotism. Molly must have made a face, because Jim was by her side in a moment, one hand spanning her back, supporting her, the other hopefully curling over her distended stomach. The baby had been increasingly active over the last few weeks, but despite his karate practice on Molly's organs, he'd not yet kicked hard enough to be felt from the outside, and Jim was impatient for his first contact.

"Junior agrees with me," Jim said into her ear, propping his chin on Molly's shoulder and rocking them from side to side.

"He does not," she snapped back, but with no bite, mollified by Jim's tender handling of her. "Jim," Molly said, twisting a little so she could look at him. "It's _Rudolph_. You can't complain about Rudolph."

" _Mol-ly_." Jim let her go and backed off a few paces, face twisted in anger in an expression that was, frankly, adorable. "The weird reindeer spends his whole life being bullied by his peers, then is forced to make nice with them because some fat man want to exploit him for his unique talents, health and safety be damned." Jim huffed loudly, really building up some steam. "Front of the line on a foggy Christmas night, I ask you. And with zero training in sleigh navigation. It's an accident _waiting_ to happen."

Molly could see where this was going clearer than Santa's line of sight with Rudolph at the head of his sleigh.

"Santa is BANNED."

"James Aragorn Moriarty!" Molly snapped. "We are not banning our child from Santa Claus."

For just a moment, Jim turned puce, mouth dropped open as he prepared a rebuttal. Molly narrowed her eyes.

Jim shut his mouth. After another moment to collect himself, he grudgingly muttered, "Fine. But my son is not watching the bully-forgiving trash. Honestly. What a thing to teach children."

Molly didn't have the heart to tell him that Rudolph was an inevitably of childhood. In three or four years, when Junior's movie consumption was actually going to be an issue, Jim would probably feel more confident in their child's ability to withstand one or two less than perfect movies without sustaining any permanent emotional trauma.

"Yes, dear," she said as she turned back to the tree she was decorating. "But you know, they don't make any Christmas movies that teach children to murder their bullies and then seek their fortunes in criminal consulting."

Jim hummed absently as he popped the Rudolph disk out of the player and returned it to its case, dropping it on the large stack of 'banned' Christmas movies. (The 'accepted' pile was just Die Hard, under the very large caveat that Hans Gruber was a victim of Hollywood's unconscionable bias against villains and Junior would be raised with the full understanding of Gruber's brilliance.)

"Just as well," Jim allowed. "Think of all the competition we'd have otherwise." He started sifting through the as yet unwatched Christmas movies, then paused. "Boring competition," he said, aghast at the thought of hoards of unworthy adversaries clawing at his doorstep.

"Mm-hm. That would be tragic." Molly picked up a silver ball ornament and inspected the tree, looking for a good spot.

"Not there!" Jim protested when she hooked in onto a branch. "It's too close to the other one."

Clenching her jaw, Molly turned to him with a forced smile. "Do you want to do this?"

Jim stepped up next to her, slipping an arm over her shoulders as he inspected the tree, eyes widening in OCD-induced horror. "Daddy will fix the tree," he said an octave higher than his usual register and patted her a few times like Sherlock Holmes attempting to display compassion. "Why don't you go pick us out another movie?"

"There's nothing wrong with- oh, nevermind," Molly sighed, ducking out from under Jim's arm.

With both hands free, Jim started to methodically strip the tree of all the ornaments, arranging them in neat rows so he'd have a quick visual count of how many he had of each. Molly shook her head fondly, knowing that when he was finished, the tree would be beautiful – and every ornament placed with mathematical precision so that all the similar ones were an equal distance from each other.

She caught Jim by the shoulder, stopping him briefly so she could press a kiss to his cheek. "I need snacks. Do we still have any of those mince pies left?"

Jim glanced at her from the corner of his eye, thoughtful. Seb's mince pies were worth fighting over, but he glanced down at the swell of her abdomen and capitulated. "There's one left, on the bottom shelf in the back."

In the spirit of the holiday, and because she did actually love the maniac who had fathered her baby, Molly cut the last pie in two so they could share. With the pie, a bowl of popcorn, and two mugs of the cider they'd mulled instead of wine this year, Molly returned to the living room.

Jim had fetched a measuring tape and was jotting down measurements. In the ten minutes or so it had taken to fetch snacks, he'd hung exactly one ornament. At this rate, it would be the New Year before the tree was finished. But Molly knew better to comment, unless she wanted a long lecture about symmetry and aesthetics and golden ratios or whatever else he was fiddling with in his calculations.

"I'm putting in White Christmas," she said. "And Jim," Molly waited until he looked up from his calculations at her, "if you so much as _think_ of banning Vera Ellen from this house, I will ban you from this." She gestured down her body. "Indefinitely."

Jim's eyes followed the flow of her hand solemnly. "Yes, dear."

"Glad we cleared that up." Molly flashed him a grin while she loaded the DVD player, then plonked down onto the sofa. "Come do your math over here, nerd."

His eyes promised a long session of delightful retribution for that comment, later, but Jim meekly trotted over, curling next to her on the couch with his notebook. Molly slipped an arm over his shoulders and snugged him into her side, combing her fingers through his hair and sighing happily while the intro music started to play.

"Which one is this Vera Ellen of yours?" Jim asked absently as he jotted down a neat row of numbers.

"She doesn't show up for a bit. I'll point her out." Molly shifted to get the snacks, passing Jim his half of the mince pie before nibbling daintily at hers in a bid to make it last longer. "She was an amazing dancer, and – ugh – her _legs_. I want them."

"Grotesque," Jim said with dark amusement. He licked his lips and leaned up to kiss her jaw, lifting his voice into a playful sing-song, "But, 'tis the sea~son, Molly-my-bell. You know I'll get you anything you ask for."

She twisted to catch his mouth, greedily licking the last crumbs of the pie he'd devoured from his mouth. Jim made a sound deep in his throat, shifting to loom over her without breaking the kiss. He braced one hand on the back of the couch, keeping his weight off of her stomach, and tangled the other into her hair to cup the base of her skull to guide her movements.

Just when Molly thought she might pass out, Jim broke the kiss and tugged gently at her hair. Molly's head fell back in response, baring her neck for Jim to line the length of it with heated, open mouthed kisses.

Dimly, she could hear Bing Crosby crooning the movie's titular song, but those dulcet tones barely penetrated her lust-fogged consciousness.

"Molly, Molly," Jim said, slotting the words between the litany of Molly's moans. His own voice was the texture of gravel. "This is important."

Dragging herself reluctantly into some semblance of attention to things other than the hot pulsing under her skin, Molly slurred, "'S matter? Baby's okay." She pressed her palm to her belly to check, even though it was hardly necessary.

Jim lifted his head, eyes crinkled softly at the corners while he gazed at her. His hand left her hair to lie over the one on her stomach.

"How many of those silver ball ornaments do we have?" he asked, as if they hadn't been X-rated necking to the tune of a very much G-rated movie a moment ago.

Molly gaped, frozen for a half a second, before groping for a throw pillow. Jim squealed and leapt off the couch to dodge the blow, laughing maniacally.

It was infectious, and Molly's irritation melted away as quickly as it had come on. Jim wouldn't be Jim if he wasn't a consummate tease, but she knew he'd make it up to her – he always did.

She still threw the pillow at him, making a face when it fell short.

"There are eleven," she said. "Toby broke one."

By the look on Jim's face, Christmas had been canceled.

Molly rolled her eyes and levered herself off the couch, straightening her rumpled clothes. "Just break another one, Jim," she said. "Then they'll be even."

Jim brightened at that and pressed a smacking kiss to her cheek. "Mummy is brilliant, isn't she, Junior?" he asked her stomach.

Junior was silent on the matter, much to Mummy's chagrin.

…

In a Christmas miracle, Jim did finish the tree in a timely manner. Once his calculations were complete, it was a quick process to put the ornaments on the tree in their pre-specified places. With the lights twinkling merrily off of the precisely spaced decorations and bathing the room in a cheerful holiday glow, Jim and Molly finally were able to curl up on the couch for the best Christmas movie of all time (not that Molly was biased in her opinion by Vera-Ellen's lusciously lithe legs and spectacular dance routines).

"This one is allowed," Jim conceded before the movie was even finished.

"Like you have a say," Molly said through a sniffle as General Waverly was invited to inspect his troops. This part always made her teary, but as a bonus this time Jim couldn't tease her about it because she was hormonal.

"The day is saved with _conniving_ ," Jim purred. "The housekeeper is _excellent_ – we shall get one just like her. And, this Vera Ellen of yours has legs that go on for a _week_."

"I know," Molly sighed wistfully. Junior started jabbing at her again, right under her belly button. Molly grunted. "Someone else agrees."

"Scamp." Jim's teeth flashed in a wide grin.

An extra hard kick left her a bit breathless. "Oof. Here," Molly took Jim's hand, pushing up her shirt and pressing his palm to the place Junior was kicking. "Can you feel that?"

Jim's face was priceless – a whole Christmas movie played out in those black eyes of his while she watched, joy melting into wonder while Jim finally felt the first flutterings of his son moving in the womb. "Oh…" he breathed out, for once at a loss for anything clever to say. Jim scrunched down, putting his cheek on Molly's stomach and humming the lullaby from the movie.

Resting her hand on Jim's head, Molly hummed along, bathed in her own happy ending while another played out on the screen. Disgustingly trite, Jim would say if he could hear her thoughts. But she didn't care, and to that, she knew Jim would agree.


End file.
